Be Careful with His Fragile Heart
by universallyfictional23
Summary: Loosely based on the Mystery Legends:Phantom of the Opera game. I've added a bunch of stuff and taken out other things, I am also using my PotO OC, and will hopefully give you guys a better ending than the collector's edition provided. Anyway, enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

"Did you enjoy the play, Ophelia?" The girl's mother asked.

As the girl walked arm-in-arm with her parents through the thrilling Parisian streets, she found her face glowing. The romantic heart of the young woman was still fluttering from the performance they had just witnessed.

"I loved it, mother!" She answered. "Was it just as breathtaking when you performing?"

"Well…" The viscountess trailed off.

"Your mother was magnificent!" The girl's father cut in grandly, causing his wife to blush. "She captivated the hearts of all Parisians with her performances!"

Both father and daughter smiled as the ex-singer blushed.

"Raoul my dear, those days are a distant memory," she dismissed softly.

"Not too distant, I hope," the girl laughed. "Isn't this where you two met again after so many years and then became engaged?"

"Yes, that's true. It is," the woman affirmed.

"Oh, father! What good taste you have! Proposing to mother in Paris!" The young girl sighed. "It must've been so romantic. A viscount and an opera singer… it must've turned quite a few heads."

The man laughed.

"Yes, I suppose it did," he admitted.

"Well, at the time, I was technically still just in the ballet. But I began to sing soon after; on the day after we met. Remember, Raoul?"

"True, my love. Although, I admit, I didn't know you were there until I heard you sing that night at the performance. Imagine my surprise! My Christine, an opera singer!"

"I had been dreaming of having that position for quite a long time. It was God's own doing that you were able to hear my first performance!"

Ophelia smiled softly and observed her mother. Having become a viscountess upon marrying her father, Viscount Raoul DeChagney, the woman had become quite distinguished. Though she was now in her mid thirties, she was still very beautiful. The girl's father had always said that Ophelia looked nearly identical to her mother at her age, except for her eyes, which were blue like her father's. She was proud to bear her mother's image.

"I like the thought that you weren't always a vicsountess, mother," Ophelia mused.

"Whatever is wrong with being a countess?" The father inquired teasingly.

"Oh, nothing. It just seems a nicer story to have been an orphan, who became a ballerina, who became a singer, then married a viscount. It's far more interesting," she confessed.

Both her parents laughed at this. Her mother patted her daughter's hand.

"Well, I'm glad my life story meets your approval," she jested as they continued to walk.

The frigid wind blew through Ophelia's decorative cloak and racked her body with a violent shiver. Snow began to drift down from the silver sky, settling upon her eyelashes.

"Tell me, Ophelia," her father began. "Despite the cold, are you pleased with Paris?"

"Absolutely! I love it here! It's nice to get out of our remote little house."

"Little?" His eyebrow raised at the belittling mention of their three-story, 20 acre, manor-estate in the country.

"Oh, I don't mean in size father, I mean the feel of the house. Or rather, the way it makes me feel."

"And Paris doesn't make you feel small?"

"Of course not!" She exclaimed. "There are so many things to do here! So many things happening all at once! Nothing much seems to happen when you live out in a country estate visited only by stuffy politicians. Paris is filled with excitement!" She paused here for a moment and her expression turned pensive. "Although I dare not complain because I'm here now, I am curious, why have we never come here before? I remember asking you both if we might visit, but the answer was always no."

There was an old, faint feeling of discomfort that arose in both parents at this question; even Ophelia could sense it.

"Paris contains mixed memories for the both of us, Ophelia. While we _were_ reunited here, we also contended with a great deal of… that is, we… well…" The words seemed to evade her mother.

"We were also faced danger here, dear girl," her father stepped in. "Things happened here that are painful to remember and we thought it best to not revisit in case it was still perilous. We did not wish to traumatize you."

"Perilous? Why, how intriguing… and quite surprising! I didn't know you two were ones for adventure." The girl said with a grin. "What was the nature of this peril?" Neither parents spoke a word. "Oh, come now! You simply cannot reveal something like that and then refuse to tell me!" Still there was silence and several uncomfortable glances between husband and wife. "Very well, I shall simply have to guess. Mother, were you a gypsy?"

The tense air was lost as Christine burst into merry laughter at her only child's ridiculous theory.

"No, Ophelia. I was not a gypsy."

"Hmm… Then perhaps _you_ were the source of the adventure, father! Tell me, were you a moonlit rogue, friend of the law and foe of outlaws? Did you roam the streets of Paris at night, keeping innocent citizens safe?"

He too laughed at this.

"No, not quite."

"Oh, I'll bet you were. You must tell me all about it!" She insisted teasingly.

"Ophelia…" The handsome father shook his head in amusement.

"Fine then, if you won't tell me, I shall have to invent my own story." The girl bit her lip in silence, thinking up a tale to fit her father. She tried to shut out the noises of the city—pigeons flapping noisily, horse hooves clipping against the cobblestones, a small boy shouting behind them. She had to admit, the country _had _been nice and quiet. Finally, she had it. "I say you were the inspiration for the Purple Pimpernel! You were so fearsome in keeping order that the villains you faced—masked, shadowy men no doubt—dared not show their faces!"

The merry mood died down slightly at this.

"Well, that's certainly not too far from the truth," he answered, a half-smile remaining on his face.

"Miss!" The distant child cried.

Ophelia's face froze in disbelief.

"What? Surely, you're teasing."

"Miss! Please wait!"

The girl and her mother turned at the noise, their feminine ears attuned to the needs of children.

There was a small boy, quite young and dressed all in brown, running behind them. His eyes were fixed on the viscount and viscountess' daughter.

"Miss! Miss! Could you please wait a moment?" His shrill voice cried desperately.

"Is he speaking to us?" The girl asked in surprise, checking the empty sidewalk behind them.

Panting and wiping his red running nose, he stopped just before the young woman. He extended a letter to her with rosy fingers.

"Excuse me, miss. A gentleman asked this be delivered to you."

"Oh, thank you." She accepted it with a smile. "A letter? For me? How strange."

The parchment felt coarse and heavy beneath her fingers and the letter was sealed with a spattering of red wax imprinted with the image of a rose beneath a skull. When she looked up to ask the boy what the man had looked like, he had already turned and sprinted away, likely returning to the man for payment. She turned her attention back to the note.

"What is it, Ophelia?" Her father inquired, leaning closer.

"Does it say who it's from, dear?" The mother asked, her brow furrowing a bit.

"It looks like an invitation, but I'm not sure who it's from," the girl answered, skimming over it briefly. She looked away and laughed, "It's probably from some nobleman's son who recognized you at the play, father."

"Well, read it out loud, dear," he responded, his expression unusually cautious.

"A-alright," she answered, suddenly made uneasy by her father's face.

She cleared her throat.

_ "My love, the stage has been set once more. I bid thee to return to my Opera House and reprise the role meant for you in one final performance._

_ Do not refuse my invitation, my dearest one. For the performance cannot proceed without you. You will decide how it is to end. I pray you will not further the Tragedy._

_ Come back to me._

_ Your Angel of Music will be waiting."_

The girl's brows furrowed in confusion as she concluded her narration. She had been merely uneasy before, but now, the letter left her thoroughly unnerved. In her puzzled state, however, she did not notice her parent's panicked expressions.

"This _must_ be some sort of a prank," she stated for mainly her own benefit. "Why, it makes no sense whatsoever. Angel of Music?" Looking for answers, she raised her eyes to her mother, who had released her arm and now bore a terrified look in her eyes. "Mother?"

She was pale as the snow falling around them.

"Oh!" She exclaimed, wavering on her feet. "Raoul!"

"Christine, my dear!" He responded by stepping forward to take hold of his wife, lest she swoon. "Calm yourself. It can't be him."

"But the seal! Look at the seal!" The blood-drained woman cried.

When his eyes turned to her, Ophelia dazedly fumbled to refold the note, baring the seal to her father's eyes.

"A rose and a skull." She stated.

He became considerably more nervous looking.

"Christine, Ophelia, come. We must return to the hotel. We are leaving, _tonight_," he stated, supporting his trembling wife as he led the way.

Their baffled daughter followed closely behind them, still clutching the letter.

"What?! Father, why?"

"Just this once, Ophelia, I'm sorry. But you mustn't ask any questions. God willing, we will explain it to you later, at home."

"But… we just arrived! And we were having such a good time!"

"Please, just stay close!"

Her parents were frightening her, but she obeyed. Now was not the time to question them, she could tell. Suddenly a great deal more cautious, she trailed along behind them.

Another bone-chilling gust of wind ignored her coat several minutes later and caused her skirt to lift slightly. Embarrassed, she reached down to still the motion as she walked, but realized that the letter, which had caused such commotion, was no longer in her hand. Looking behind her, she watched as it fluttered and was borne on the wind—almost like a living thing—into an alley.

After brief consideration, she went after it. It was troubling, but it was evidence. She didn't have an inkling as to what about it troubled her parents so, but if the police were to get involved, she thought that the note would be sorely missed.

A moment after she stepped a foot inside the alley, however, a nauseous feeling rose in her gut. It was inexplicable. The instant her fingers met the coarse paper again, darkness rushed into her mind like a wave and she was consumed by it.


	2. Chapter 2

As her eyes reopened to an unfamiliar, dimly-lit setting, an echoing, unfamiliar male voice roused her completely. Her heart jarred in panic and she bolted upright, then realized that she had been lying on a floor.

"**_~Welcome back, my love. Oh, how long I have waited for this day!_**"

Stumbling to her feet, Ophelia panted and spun in place, searching for the speaker. Much to her increased fright, she appeared to be alone in a dismally decrepit vestibule. The voice continued. Rasping and deep, it permeated the very air she breathed. It was powerful, ardent, and frightening.

"**_~This time, I will make you love me. This time, you will not leave me._**"

At this, the poor girl trembled and wished her fear would allow her to cry.

Also, _this time_? Whatever did he mean? Had they met before?

As if to respond, the voice went on:

"**_~Bring me the black roses hidden within this house and I will show you everything you have forgotten._**"

"Black roses? Forgotten? Who are you? What do you want from me?!" She cried out, tears finally rising to her eyes.

But the voice had gone, there was no response.

She trembled and fell to her knees on the cold marble floor. It was then that she began to notice her surroundings. First of all, she had been robbed of her cloak, leaving her in her insufficient, short-sleeved gown. Next, with a turn of her head, she found that her bronze hair now hung loose, a few inches shy of her waist. Also, everything around her was dusty, broken, burnt-looking, and covered in signs of decay. Everything, that is, except for a pristine circle on the floor around her—where she had been laying. It was as though someone had prepared it for her.

There were disintegrating posters and crooked picture frames hanging on the walls. There was a ticket booth—mostly boarded up—, a reception desk, and a coat check situated in roomy alcoves on opposite sides of the room. Thick, faded red fabric hung high like a crown around the room, heavy with dust. And cold light filtered through the swirls of airborne dust from a generous skylight above.

"W-what _is_ this place? Am I trapped here?" She whispered.

Finding the strength to stand once more, she turned and found what appeared to be the main door behind her. She rushed to it. She found it immovable.

She stumbled back from it in silent terror.

It is a rather confusing thing to realize that one is trapped. There is never an obvious or set course of action. This is where most people go wrong when in a captive situation. Most will behave foolishly by panicking, despairing, or crying and giving into hysterics, but none of these actions benefit the captive of course; they merely serve to notify the captor of the incompetence of their prey.

For Ophelia, however, she took on a sort of numb determination, which mainly stemmed from her sense of disbelief. After all, this sort of bizarre thing was something that one might read about in the paper. Some poor soul would go missing, then be found dead, locked up in some abandoned building. But Ophelia was not "someone else", so therefore, that would not—could not—happen to her. She simply would not let it. She was utterly bewildered and frightened, but she was determined to escape this place and the clutches of her mysterious captor. Her aim was to get back to her parents in time for tea the following morning.

Somehow, in her numb single-mindedness, she managed to find a flashlight and locate the electric breaker, which she used to activate the buildings electric lights. Honestly, she was surprised that this building even had electricity. It was rare that _any_ building had it, since it was so newfangled, and this place seemed ancient. But perhaps the neglect it had suffered had caused it to appear that way.

"**_~I love you_**," the voice reappeared abruptly. It whispered intensely and briefly caused the girl's panic to return.

Startled, she looked around the room quickly, her heart racing at these unexpected words. But there was no one there. She began to worry what the mad man had in store for her.

She began to comb the room. Finding an empty journal and a fountain pen lying on the reception desk, she fearfully took them, thinking to record her experience in case she turned up dead. Summarizing what she had seen so far and how confusing it all was, she signed her name to the top of the first page, now covered with writing.

Continuing her search, she found a several fragments of paper: a newspaper clipping (Chandelier Crash Kills Woman: Has the Opera Ghost Struck Again?) and a small poster, whose title had been messily smeared over with red paint—at least, she prayed it was paint. Instead, under the header were written the words "Don Juan", then the date 3/25/1896. Eighteen years ago. A year before she had been born!

As she viewed the poster, the voice came again, more sly sounding than before.

"**_~I am a sort of Don Juan, you know_**."

Again, thoroughly startled, Ophelia folded up the poster and tucked in inside the journal as though she were a child caught doing something naughty. She shivered at the thought that she was being watched.

Voice or no voice, watched or not, she still needed to escape. She inspected the room once more. Opposite the main door hung a substantial red curtain. It hung in what appeared to be a stone doorway and also had "Don Juan" painted over it. Noticing a rope hanging beside it, she grasped it firmly and pulled hard. She felt it release slightly and the curtain slid partially free. This time, she directly grasped the red material and pulled it down, letting it fall to the ground in a cloud of dust.

She gave a slight scream, however, when the curtain revealed a shadowy figure just inside the next room. He was tall, shrouded in dark smoke, wore a cowled cloak, and a white porcelain mask, which concealed his entire face. As he stepped closer, he stared fixedly at her with an intense gaze, and held out his hand to her as he spoke.

"**_~Welcome to my Opera House, welcome to your destiny!_**" He greeted darkly. "**_The time has come to be reunited with your Angel of Music._**"

Her legs quaked beneath her and she had turned white with terror. She longed to turn and run, but her fear had arrested her. It was the way he spoke and the way he was looking at her, as though he expected her to know him. His eyes seemed so punishing and hungry. Chills slid down her spine.

He came closer.

"**_~Do you remember our last meeting?_**"

Honestly, she shook her head.

"**_~Let me remind you…_**" He motioned for her to follow as he withdrew slightly back into the room, somehow drawing her with him. "**_I had reached the depths of my despair. It was all over. The shadow of my death drew near._**" He began to circle her, quite close now. Still he was surrounded by black, scentless smoke. "**_You were the light in the darkness of my existence. I was your Angel of Music… but you chose him._**" There was obvious bitterness in his voice.

It occurred to her that this man was probably some crazed eccentric, who had apparently been thwarted in love. The act of the woman Ophelia was being mistaken for must've driven him insane. She wondered who it had been.

"**_~You left me. All was lost. That time had come to end it!_**" His tone rose to a furious crescendo as he motioned to the building around and above them. It was now obvious what had caused so much damage: fire. "**_My house would burn, but I would not rest. One day, God willing, I would have my revenge!_**"

His hooded and masked face had drawn so near to hers as he had hissed this, that, with a flinch, she had closed her eyes. With his talk of revenge, she had been expecting a hand, a fist, or even a knife, but nothing came. After a moment, she reopened her eyes and he was gone, but the voice remained.

"**_~So, welcome, my love. Welcome to my Opera House!_**" His voice rang out clearly, though he was nowhere to be seen.

"W-who are you?" She asked, suddenly finding her voice. "Where am I?"

"**_~I am your Angel of Music. I am Phantom of the Opera!_**" He announced grandly. Then, his voice dropped low and sent shivers over her skin as he purred, "**_Come to me…_**"

Then the voice was gone again.

Ophelia's heart wasn't racing any more, but it did beat hard, quite hard. As it thudded in her ears, she decided that she had no intention of going directly to that man, but she did want to escape. So, she pressed forward, unknowingly walking deeper into his trap and entangling herself in his web.


	3. Chapter 3

Presently, Ophelia had two choices before her, or rather, two doorways. From the doorway on the left, a curious blue light glowed, cold and oddly mesmerizing. So, of course her curiosity drew her to it. The heels of her shoes tapped on the broken and chipped marble steps as she ascended and she got a sudden chill as she neared the faint blue light. Nevertheless, she stepped forward past the threshold. Until a slick surface met her foot and she almost fell. Collapsing against the wall as her footing failed her, she stepped back and observed the floor. It was glazed in a thick flawless sheet of ice. Crossing that would be nearly impossible without hurting herself.

Glancing down the hall, she saw that there were only two rooms, which were now unreachable to her and, with a sigh, she turned and walked back in the way she had come. When she entered through the other doorway and into another hall, she found that it had no ice in it whatsoever.

The candelabras along the ornate walls were lit, their flickering flames dimly illuminating her surroundings with a warm glow. She walked on, her echoing footsteps making her feel even more alone. Though statues stood shrouded with dust and broken fragments of stone lay scattered across the floor, it was obvious that this place—this _opera house_, as the man had informed her—had once been resplendent. But now, as Ophelia strolled through the stone halls, she saw that age and decay were triumphant even over such grand, beautiful places such as this.

Walking on, she saw that a part of the high ceiling had collapsed and she shivered as a breath of freezing wind brought in a flurry of snow from outside. Almost simultaneously however, she felt a warm current waft past her, coming from the direction of a room from which a warm golden glow ebbed. She entered.

Once upon another time, it seemed that this room had been used as a dining salon, but no longer. The table which would've been the grand centerpiece of the room was crippled and it knelt, two of its legs broken. Demolished chairs lay strewn about the room, as though someone, in a mighty and horrible rage, had thrown them all about. On the left rear wall, she found a small side table burdened with many different objects, the most notable and unnerving of which was a crematory urn. At the sight of this, she quickly turned her attention to by far the most pleasing feature of the salon: the blazing fireplace.

She went to it eagerly, warming her chilled body. As she stood there, welcoming the warmth, she took note of the curiously empty mantle, which bore five small plaques along the rim. Each of them were engraved with dates: 1884, 1812, 1854, 1835, and 1862. She frankly didn't know what to make of it.

Just below the edge of the mantle however, she saw a haunting and puzzling black-petalled rose, lying sealed in a glass compartment.

She could faintly recall the man saying something about black roses when she had first arrived, but she had been terrified and drowsy. She hadn't cared about listening closely. Regardless of what the rose might've meant, she backed away from the deathly blossom slowly. If it had anything to do with that terrifying man, she wanted nothing to do with it.

Sufficiently warm, the young girl then exited the warm room and stepped back out into the hall. She then entered the next available hallway, which was even more dilapidated than the previous one. Spiders had strung up their threaded homes in every corner and crevice, curtains hung torn by their nearly opaque windows, and pictures dangled askew from the walls, their frames cracked. Suddenly, Ophelia's eyes met a horrifyingly familiar visage contained in one of the paintings and her breath was drawn in sharply.

She stumbled closer in shock. There on the wall hung a picture of hersel-

_No._

She sighed in relief. Upon closer inspection, the picture was not of her. Her blue eyes studied the brown irises before her. She could see quite clearly now, it was her mother at a much earlier age than when her daughter currently knew her. Journal and pen in hand, she recorded her thoughts.

_There's a painting of my mother hanging in the hallway. I must be in the Paris Opera House, the very place where she used to perform! Why else would this painting be here? We look so alike at first I almost thought is was a picture of me! It gave me quite a shock!_

Closing the journal, she stood still for a moment, gazing upon her mother's younger countenance. Her father had been right. The likeness between them was uncanny. Just as a dark worrisome thought began to rise in her mind, the voice startled her again.

"**_~You should never have left me!_**"

His voice rang abruptly around her, as though he had been holding in the words for a long time and had finally spat them out. Then his voice vanished again, fading like smoke.

She placed a calming hand to her thudding heart. It was as if the strange man, her ghost-like captor, had heard her fearful thoughts. Had her mother been the one to break the man's heart? And did she and her mother look so much alike that he had mistaken the daughter for Christine? If that were the case, then he might not be mad at all, only mistaken. After a moment of uneasy contemplation, she shuddered and shook such thoughts from her mind, reminding herself that it was unwise to speculate.

There was a door beside the troublesome picture and she tried the handle. It was not frozen shut as others had been, but it was locked. So, she pressed on—a bit more quickly when she saw another crematory urn. With a squirm, she hurried past it.

Through the next corridor was a frigid rotunda. All of the windows gaped jaggedly open. Small heaps of snow blanketed the floor beneath every shattered pane and hazy drifts of fog rolled across the marble.

The harsh cold quickened her steps as she approached a beautifully carved and framed door across the rotunda. Of course, it too was locked.

_Why must everything be locked?_

Clutching her bare arms, she turned back to considered the broken windows. They were on the first floor and the ground could be seen just a few feet below; it was possible for her to exit through one of them, but she eyed the jagged pieces of glass and decided that it was best not to risk injuring herself.

Turning down another hallway, one with overgrown plants encroaching in through the broken, latticed windows, she huffed. There wasn't a thing that might help her so far.

Suddenly, she tripped over a heavy, soft object and collapsed onto the hard, cold ground.

"Oof!"

The broken tiles beneath her cut her hands when she braced herself for the fall. Hissing in pain, she observed her palms, now diced by several tiny cuts. Stumbling to her feet-without using her hands to assist her up-she gazed down at the object that had caused her to fall.

A stupid sack of sand.

With a bitter frown, she gave it a kick, then continued down the hall. The walls widened and a thoroughly overgrown conservatory appeared before her. Perhaps the way out was through here?

Nerves tense with desperate hope, she made her way over to an intricately crafted iron gate. She could see the world beyond through the doors. Nervously, she tried the handle. But just like all the doors she had previously tried, she found this one locked also.

She gritted her teeth in frustration. Surely, there _was_ a way out! There had to be! She refused to allow herself to be trapped in this place; but where else could she look? She had exhausted her options.

Frustrated, afraid, and tired, she leaned against the gate. Cold swirls and designs pressed against her uncomfortably, but the section her head rested against was perfectly smooth. In the very center, amidst the metal decorations, rested a plain, empty plaque. There were symmetrical scratches all around the edges, as though something had been repeatedly pressed into it and taken out again. Even more intrigued, she studied the rest of the gate and found neither a handle nor a keyhole. Could this plaque be the key to unlocking the door and her escape?

Hurriedly, she began to search for something that might've fit. Retracing her steps, she found nothing in the conservatory, or the adjoining hallway, the rotunda, or the hall where her mother's portrait was. It wasn't until she made it back to the first hallway she had managed to enter that she spotted something odd in one of the statuary's hands. It appeared to be a crest of some sort. She might've simply assumed that it was part of the statue had it not been metal instead of marble.

It slid from the statue's stony grasp with surprising ease. At a glance, she guessed that it was roughly the same size and shape as the empty plaque on the iron gate. But the only was to be certain would be to test it; besides, it was heavy, and she didn't wish to tote it around with her. So, she hurried back to the conservatory. With a single push, she found that it fit perfectly and locked into place with a resounding metal clank.

Now, for some reason, the gate swung open at the slightest push. Ophelia felt victorious and somewhat clever. At last! She would escape this horrid place and the terrifying man who haunted her.

Pushing the gate open, she turned and flew through it.

Icy, frigid wind met her like a rebuking slap. Several inches of snow crunched beneath her feet and her bare arms instantly prickled.

As far as her dismayed eyes could see—which wasn't very far, considering the heavy snowfall—a forest surrounded her. There was a small icicle-covered cottage a short distance away. It was a rather beautiful sight, but it was deadly. As under-dressed as she was, she knew there was no way she would survive long, lost in the woods without food or warmth.

Dread filled her as she retreated back inside the shelter of the conservatory. She was truly trapped here, she saw that now.

Moving the iron gate aside, it creaked loudly and a cool breeze murmured through the room. The girl froze and listened hard. Where those voices or was that the wind?

Looking around, she saw no one. No one but the statues: a cherub and a man playing the flute. The man had his eyes closed and the cherub was staring dejectedly at the floor. They beautifully crafted, but not _quite_ alive. Still, the voices grew clearer until she could actually hear what they were saying.

"_He's here..._"

"_It's him!_"

"_Hear him?_"

**_"You will never, never leave this place!" _**The mans cruel voice startled her once again.

She jumped and felt ready to weep. He had seen her try to escape and forbade it.

The wind began to die and so too did the voices. But when Ophelia looked up again, she nearly cried out. The cherub was looking straight at her! A blink later, however, his eyes had returned to the floor.

A trick of the light? She hoped so.

With a shudder, she made her way back to the fire in the dining salon and stood warming herself by the fire. She gazed upon the object she had been bid to deliver to the man in the mirror: the black rose. Staring blankly at the haunting object, she began to realize that her best chance of survival lay with appealing to the strange man. If he truly believed that he was in love with her, then he likely wouldn't harm her. He didn't seem like his intentions were malicious, merely possessive. But if she stayed well away from him as her logic instructed her to do, then—eventually—she would either starve or freeze to death. She swallowed uneasily, but set her jaw. She had to figure out how to unlock this black rose.


End file.
